The scene unfolded before my eyes like a nightmare too real to bear. There was Benjamín—our friend, our brother—in this crusade of death and survival. But now, reduced to a rotting husk that barely resembled a human being. The stench was unbearable, a mix of decay and defeat that permeated every corner of the forest. For a moment, I stood still. I couldn't move. My feet were anchored to the ground, as if by staying there I could somehow avoid facing the truth.
Benjamín had been a pillar—a man of science with a sense of duty that far surpassed our own. And now, that same duty had devoured him. The sight of his body was a cruel reminder of what we were chasing, of what we still couldn't stop. I closed my eyes, trying to erase the image, but the deformed face and blackened skin remained, etched into my mind.
Duarte arrived at my side, his steps slowing until he came to a full stop. I felt his presence—the way his breathing grew heavier with each passing second. I knew him well, and though he always carried himself with the practicality of a soldier, this time he couldn't hide the fury swelling inside him. His hands trembled slightly, and when he tried to speak, his voice came out broken. "How did we let this happen?" He could barely look at me.
Vidal, ever the calculating one, broke the silence that was suffocating us. He approached Benjamín's body with the slowness of someone who knows he won't like what he finds. His face, usually cold, began to crack as his hands clumsily examined the remains. I had never seen him hesitate before. Never had I seen that glint of hopelessness in his eyes.
"It's the third stage…" he muttered, his voice halting. He tried to sound firm, but couldn't hide the tremble in his words. "He must've known there was no coming back. That's why he took off the suit."
I bit my lip to stop an impulsive reply, but I couldn't hold back. "Does that comfort you, Vidal? Knowing he accepted it before the rest of us?" My own voice surprised me—a strangled cry that revealed the fracture this tragedy had opened in me.
The forest seemed to grow darker, as if even nature refused to witness our defeat. Around us, the trees stood like silent judges, and the mud beneath our feet felt heavier with every passing second. I couldn't get Taveras's face out of my head—his lifeless eyes, hollow and empty, as if even the memory of his suffering had been devoured by the disease. It was the same fate we were trying to avoid and yet, it seemed inevitable.
Silence returned, but it was not peaceful. It was dense, thick with questions none of us dared to ask. Finally, Duarte spoke. "Where's Binet?" And that simple, direct question sent a chill through me. Deep down, I already knew the answer wouldn't be any better than what lay before us.
Vidal knelt beside Taveras's body, his movements slow and burdened with invisible weight. Though his face tried to maintain the mask of professionalism, his eyes betrayed him. There was deep pain there—a blend of guilt and despair he couldn't hide. I stepped closer, my own breath growing heavier with each step. It wasn't just the stench pressing on my chest, but the vision of what remained of our friend.
"Help me turn him over," Vidal whispered. I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat, and together we gently rolled the body. The skin, already fragile and decomposed, tore in places, releasing a dark fluid that mixed with the mud beneath us. I shut my eyes briefly, trying not to give in to nausea.
That's when Vidal saw it. "What the hell is this…?" His tone, usually controlled, now carried a tinge of disbelief. He pointed to something extending from the base of Taveras's spine—white, fibrous structures that resembled roots. They followed a twisted pattern, climbing up his torso and disappearing into his throat.
"Roots?" I asked, though the word sounded absurd even as it left my lips. I leaned closer, watching how the fibers seemed to burrow into what remained of the internal organs. Vidal, hands trembling, used his scalpel to trace the path. The roots extended from where the kidneys should have been, wrapping around the stomach and lungs, reaching all the way to the mouth, where they intertwined as if trying to escape.
"This isn't natural…" Vidal murmured, his voice laced with a fear he rarely showed. For a moment, we both stood in silence, staring at the grotesque scene. It was as if the disease had found a new way to claim its victims—transforming them into something beyond death.
Meanwhile, Duarte couldn't take it anymore. I watched him turn away, his face pale and hands shaking. "I can't… I can't stay here watching this." His voice was a broken whisper, and before Vidal or I could respond, he was already walking toward the perimeter.
"I'm going to find Binet," he said, more to himself than to us. His need for action was palpable—a way to escape the horror surrounding us. Muñoz and Sánchez, who had been observing from a distance, followed without hesitation. The three began sweeping the area, their flashlights slicing through the forest's gloom as their voices faded into the distance.
Vidal and I remained beside Taveras's body, trapped between duty and grief. The white roots were still there—a macabre enigma mocking our inability to understand. And as Duarte and the others searched for Binet, I couldn't help but wonder if what they'd find would be even more terrifying than what we had in front of us.
The investigation came to an abrupt halt when Binet emerged from the underbrush, stumbling, his face marked by exhaustion. His breathing was uneven, and each step seemed to drain what little energy he had left. For an instant, his eyes scanned our group in desperation, as if trying to confirm we were still standing. Then, with a voice barely audible, he gave us his warning: "Hide… it's coming…"
The rawness of his words was enough to freeze us in place. Duarte, who had been inspecting the perimeter, dropped his flashlight and ran toward us, with Muñoz and Sánchez right behind him. Vidal stood quickly, though his gaze remained fixed on Taveras's remains. I, unable to move, barely managed to speak: "What's coming?"
But Binet had no time to answer. The forest—once solemn and silent—was suddenly filled with a guttural sound that made every fiber of my being tense. And then, we saw it.
Through the mist that began to rise with the dim light of dawn, the creature appeared. A bear—if it could still be called that—dragged its infected, monstrous mass toward us. Its flesh was torn and hung in blackened strips, exposing muscle and bone rotted by decay. But the most terrifying thing was its left eye: a glowing red orb that pulsed in sync with the rhythm of our hearts. I could feel it—every one of my heartbeats aligned with that eerie pulse, each throb making me more aware of how fragile we were.
Instinctively, we began to ready ourselves. Duarte raised his Mauser C96, while Vidal gripped his M1 Garand. But just as we tried to react, the bear let out an inhuman roar—a sound that seemed to rise from the very bowels of death. The noise was paralyzing—not just for its volume, but for the vibration it left in the air. It felt like the scream had torn our souls from the ground, leaving us exposed and defenseless in its presence.
We couldn't move. My hands—hands that had just moments ago helped Vidal examine Taveras's corpse—were now trembling uncontrollably. The world turned surreal, as if the forest and everything around us had become a stage for a nightmare. The creature advanced slowly, savoring our terror, its red eye a malignant beacon marking us as its next prey.
Binet, with the last of his strength, tried to say something else. But his voice faded before he could form the words. And there, in front of that abomination, I understood that what awaited us was far worse than the rot we had already seen.
The monster marched toward us, each step sounding like the echo of a sentence. That was when López, with suicidal resolve, charged at the beast. His war cry rose above the animal's roar as he swung his machete, striking it with a force that would have felled a normal man. The blow landed with a resounding thud, but barely managed to scratch the monster's decaying flesh. The bear staggered for an instant—just enough for the others to start moving.
"Run! I'll distract it!" López shouted, his eyes ablaze with determination.